flapjack pigeons a thin, grey lunch break inside a great, glass greenhouse: my numb fingers, break a Bakewell tart flavoured flapjack, into beak-sized bites,
Christmas crows quick black shadows pass by the skylight; hints of yesterday peeling away, to a pale grey sky beneath, left wanting, heavy with the promise of questions.
early sun over Hope Valley head back, the sleeping sun pours her storm black hair over the tooth broken shale, river aglint, in the pebbled flint, spilling down in the trackside gale.
break in at the heart something, in the shining smile, shows me there is a way inside. this will take time: patience measured in Mondays, the warmth of friendship first,
portrait of the artist as a small man a weather bleached bench gapes onto a pale blue sky, fallen leaves, spilled over the ground as a copper blood-letting. here, is a Sunday place;